


Come Home to Roost

by CharlotteCordelier



Series: Natural Children [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Chickens, F/M, Gen, Jewish Bruce Wayne, Multiracial Selina Kyle, NaNoWriMo, No proofreading we die like mne, Romani Dick Grayson, exurban homesteading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlotteCordelier/pseuds/CharlotteCordelier
Summary: Bruce Wayne has returned to the Manor, but the consequences of his world tour are right behind him.Therefore, the children were called by her name, to teach you that with regard to anyone who raises an orphan in his house, the verse ascribes him credit as if he gave birth to him.-Sanhedrin 19b(This work is complete and I'll be posting a chapter a day!)
Relationships: Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne
Series: Natural Children [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558399
Comments: 22
Kudos: 106





	1. January 2009

ר' יהושע בן קרחה נמי הכתיב את חמשת בני מיכל בת שאול אמר לך רבי יהושע וכי מיכל ילדה והלא מירב ילדה מירב ילדה ומיכל גידלה לפיכך נקראו על שמה ללמדך שכל המגדל יתום בתוך ביתו מעלה עליו הכתוב כאילו ילדו:

The Gemara asks:  **And** according to  **Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korḥa as well, isn’t it written: “And the five sons of Michal, daughter of Saul,** whom she bore to Adriel” (II Samuel 21:8).  **Rabbi Yehoshua** ben Korḥa could have  **said to you** to understand it this way:  **And did Michal give birth** to these children?  **But didn’t Merab give birth** to them for Adriel? Rather,  **Merab gave birth** to them and died,  **and Michal raised** them in her house.  **Therefore,** the children  **were called by her name, to teach you that** with regard to  **anyone who raises an orphan in his house, the verse ascribes him** credit  **as if he gave birth to him.**

-Sanhedrin 19b

  
  


**January 2009**

St. Jerome’s wasn’t that bad. It could be worse. Dick knew it could be worse. There were a lot of rules. But they didn’t change very often, so he could learn. The nuns were tough, but they were tough on everyone, not just him. It wasn’t like they were picking on him, it was just that he had so much to adjust to. So much to correct. They were being patient and they told him so.

Everything, everything had to happen on time. There was no meal that ever arrived early. There was no morning that he ever slept late. They were the same clothes. They did the same chores. There were books in their little library, which was just a closet with shelves, that all started with  _ Madeline _ . Dick loved those books. He wished he could be Pepito, though, who came and went as he pleased. But instead he was Madeline. In the same jeans and collared shirt every morning. He had his assigned buddy, an older boy named Andrew who wasn’t mean, exactly, but wasn’t really nice either. He did not have a Miss Clavel, he had a Sister Agnes.

Dick had thought, in the beginning, that at least chapel would be okay. His daj had a little wooden statue, in their trailer, where she would light a candle sometimes. That was a saint, just like Jerome. But it turned out that his St. Sarah, with her dark face made of walnut, wasn’t a real saint. That’s what the nuns told him, a little sadly. That his mother had been wrong to light candles for her. That it was a mistake. A sin. He thought their little St. Sarah was in his bag, when he came to St. Jerome’s, but then he couldn’t find it. His daj had always said that one day Dati would take them to France and they would visit where St. Sarah lived.

He told Andrew that. And Andrew told Sister Agnes. Dick got his mouth washed out with soap and told to call his dead parents mom and dad, or mother and father, but no more daj and dat. Sometimes at night, though, Dick still whispered his prayers in the dark to St. Sarah, who after all was supposed to look after boys like him. He thought maybe Andrew had heard him, because one morning he was pulled out of class and told to sit outside Mother Patricia’s office in one of the hardest wooden chairs he’d ever felt. Dick’s feet didn’t quite touch the ground and he tried, he tried so hard not to swing his legs. It was one of the many things good children weren’t supposed to do, but Daj and Dati had never had rules like that, and it was very hard to remember.

“Dick.”

He sucked in his breath and straightened up. Mother Patrica stood before him, in her black dress and black hair cloth and black stockings and black shoes. Next to her was a younger woman with a kind face and brown hair and a blue suit with boots that had a very fancy zipper.

“Come in, Richard,” Mother Patricia said. “Sit down.” 

The lady in blue was still smiling. Dick smiled back, fairly certain he wasn’t in trouble now. Mother Patricia cleared her throat noisily and he hid the smile at once. They all sat down in the comfy chairs in front of Mother Patricia’s desk.

“This is Miss Dawes.”

“Hi, Richard.” She held out her hand. “My name is Rachel.”

“You can call her Miss Dawes.”

“Hello, Miss Dawes,” Dick said carefully.

“Hi,” Miss Dawes repeated, clearing her throat. “I’m so glad to meet you.”

“You, too.”

“I have a favor to ask,” she said. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll be quick. I’m a lawyer and I think it’s possible that one of the people I work for might be related to you.”

“What?” Dick looked hard at her face. It seemed honest. “You do?”

“I do. But we need to do a little test to check. I’d like to take this little swab, it’s kind of like a big q-tip, and just swipe it around the inside of your cheeks. Then I’ll take it with me and give it to a laboratory. They’ll find out if you two are related.”

“Then what?” He was almost breathless.

“I’m not sure what comes after that. But I promise I’ll come back and talk to you about it in person. Okay?”

“Okay.”

The cheek thing was easy, although it tickled a little. Miss Dawes did it twice, on both sides of his mouth. Then she shook Mother Patricia’s hand and then she was gone. Outside the office, Sister Agnes was waiting. Instead of taking Dick back to class, though, she took him to the chapel and pulled down the kneeler in the first row. 

“Why are we here?” he whispered. It felt, a lot of the time, like Sister Agnes didn’t like children very much. And sometimes it felt like she was afraid of them.

“Life is hard for orphans,” she said, in a normal speaking voice. “I know how hard it is. This lady who came today, she might be able to bring you to some family you didn’t know about. A good family. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“Dick,” Sister Agnes whispered. “Pray. Pray as hard you ever have.”

* * *

One week later, Sister Agnes pulled him out of class again. He thought for sure he was getting his mouth cleaned out with soap again, because he had absolutely been praying, except it was to St. Sarah. It had been silent, only in his head, but nuns had ways of finding these things out. She took him directly upstairs to the bedroom, where some of his things were already spread out on his bottom bunk bed.

“What’s happening?”

“You’re packing, Richard,” she said, and held his hand. “Your family’s going to take you home today.”

“Today? Now? Just...just right away like that?”

“It’s alright, Richard. Don’t worry. Mother Patricia has investigated them thoroughly.”

“Yeah?” That was encouraging. Mother Patricia was the least forgiving nun in an orphanage full of nuns. She was the nun the other nuns were afraid of. Dick didn’t know why anyone would be afraid of hell when Mother Patricia lived next door.

“Yes,” Sister Agnes said, squeezing his hand. “Now someone is going to pick you up in an hour to take you to your f-- to your family. So let’s pack your things.” From under the bed, she retrieved the old-fashioned hardshell suitcase that he had arrived with. It was powder blue with old fashioned pockets on the inside. Dick reached in to put his socks inside, only to feel something hard and familiar. He leaned forward and peeked. St. Sarah.

“I shouldn’t let you leave with that,” Sister Agnes said. “It really is heretical.”

Dick kept packing, hoping she’d let herself forget about St. Sarah. He didn’t have much that was his own. And, she told him, he’d have plenty of new things in his new home. He wanted a home and he wanted new things, but also he’d just begun to wake up on time and remember a little of the Latin. It had been a month since he’d been punished for anything. The thought of starting over was too much. He sat down on the floor and began to cry.

“Richard? Dick?” Sister Agnes knelt beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“What if I go with them and something goes wrong and I have to come back? What if they decide later they don’t like me? What if their rules are even worse than here?” 

“Shhh,” she said, patting his back. It was the most kindness she’d ever shown him. Or possibly anyone. “I told you, Mother Patricia met them. She even went to your new house to make sure it was safe and that they had a place for you. And even if she was wrong and something bad happens, I put our phone number inside your notebook. If you’re in trouble, you can call us.”

“And you’ll come?”

“Of course. You’re a good boy, Dickie. But you won’t need us.”

A half hour later, Dick had changed into fresh clothes and washed his face with cool water and he was as prepared as he thought he could be. Sister Agnes let him hold her hand while they walked down the stairs. She carried his suitcase in the other and led him forward. His new family must be in the front sitting room. None of the children were allowed in there except by express invitation. Usually, it was just for the nuns and sometimes donors or social workers. Sister Agnes gave his hand one last squeeze and then opened the door.

Inside were three people. They were dressed like rich people, Dick could see that right away. Two of them, a man and a woman, looked pretty old, like even older than his parents. The third was younger. He seemed huge in that little parlor, tall and broad, with hair as black as Dick’s. Sister Agnes leaned over to set his suitcase down and, without thinking, he hugged her. She startled a little, but managed to extricate herself and admonish him one last time to be good. Then she left him alone with his family.

“Hi,” Dick said, but it came out more like a half of a whisper.

“How do you do?” said the old man, who stepped forward to offer his hand. 

“Very well, thank you,” Dick said automatically. The nuns had really worked on his manners, very patiently. He shook the old lady’s hand, too. But the man appeared to be stuck. So he was going first, then. “My name is Richard, but everyone calls me Dick or Dickie. Except the nuns.”

“Well,” said the old lady. “It’s kind of an old fashioned name, but I think it suits you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Leslie. And this is Bruce.” She elbowed Bruce and it was not at all subtle. The nuns would have caught her for sure. 

“Hello,” said Bruce. His voice was deep and scratchy. “I’m Bruce Wayne. I’m--"

“--the sperm donor!” Dick exclaimed.

Leslie made a choked noise and then coughed into her fist. The two men stared, apparently frozen in horror.

“Sorry. It’s hard to keep secrets, in a circus,” he explained quickly, feeling bad. “The sisters say I don’t have any filter. It’s why they’re always washing my mouth out with soap.”

“Do they, really?” Leslie asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Oh yes, but it’s mostly because I haven’t got any self-regulation. That’s what Mother Patricia says.”

“Good heavens,” the old man muttered, his mustache quirking up at one end.

“I---suppose I am the sperm donor,” the man called Bruce said, but he looked like he was in pain. “I met your mother when I was very young and not as responsible as I should have been.”

“It’s okay,” Dick shrugged. “She always said I was the best training accident she ever had.”

Bruce turned very, very red.

“Sorry. Like I said, they’re always washing my mouth out with soap.”

“I promise,” Bruce said, “I will never wash your mouth out with soap.”

“You might think so now,” Dick said cheerfully.

“I like you very much, Dick,” Leslie said, just as cheerful. “If you decide you don’t like living with Bruce and Alfred, you can always come stay with me.”

“Are you Alfred?” he asked the old man.

“Yes, Master Richard. I have that honour.”

“Don’t worry,” Leslie said. “He always talks like that. Come on, we’ll stop at Big Belly Burger on the way home. I bet you can eat fries and a shake and still have room for dinner.”

“Oh, I can,” he said. “We never get fries here and we hardly ever get ice cream. I haven’t had a French fry in a year at least.”

“I...also like French fries,” said Bruce, who still looked a little red. “Maybe we could share.”

“As long as it’s mega-sized.”

“We can arrange for mega-sized.”

* * *

Alfred parked the large, nondescript sedan outside Big Belly Burger. In the front seat, he and Leslie watched Bruce and his son go in to order at the counter. They appeared to be in negotiations about their selections. Leslie didn’t think Bruce stood a chance.

“I thought I was done raising boys,” Alfred surprised her by saying. She looked away from the restaurant to see him frowning slightly at the scene in front of them. Leslie could only imagine what it was like to have grandchildren thrust upon you. Even adorable apple-cheeked chatterbugs like Dick Grayson.

“Well,” she said cautiously. “I know this may not be the politic thing to say, but. You still could be. Done, that is.”

Alfred looked askance. She rolled her eyes.

“You are not Miss Havisham, Alf. You can leave any time.”

He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a harrumph.

“I mean it.” She felt, suddenly, a little reckless. “I know my postage stamp of a backyard isn’t much for gardening. But I’m sure you could build the girls a skyscraper coop. A Bird Khalifa. An Eggpire State Building.”

“Leslie, I beg you.” Alfred leaned his head back against his headrest in a rare moment of fatigue. “Do you know, I had this same talk with Master Bruce. I said he could send him to boarding school, or arrange for a private adoption with a well off family in Australia, or merely sponsor the orphanage like a Medici Prince. Do you know what he said to me?”

“No.”

“He asked me why I hadn’t sent him away, when his parents died. Why I didn’t send him to live with the Kanes or to boarding school in England. I told him that I considered him something of a sacred duty. And that abandoning such a duty was not the way I was raised. And he looked me--” Alfred stopped to clear his throat.

Leslie examined her gloves, giving him a moment to compose himself.

“He looked at me and he said, ‘It’s not the way I was raised either.’”

“Well,” Leslie said, tilting her head back to discourage her own tears, “at least you won’t be rattling around that house by yourself anymore.”

“No, I’ll have Master Richard. And his sperm donor.”

She snorted with laughter. “Did you see Bruce’s face?”

“I did, the poor boy. And I don’t mind telling you that I have a great deal of sympathy for those nuns.”

“Perhaps you ought to donate a little soap.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a fine whiskey.”

“Whiskey is better,” she agreed. “Christ, Alfred, we’re damn lucky that he ended up at that place and not somewhere else.”

“A fact of which I am well aware.”

“Is that their order?” Leslie leaned forward to look more closely at the fried feast Bruce was carrying. “What army are we feeding?”

  
  


* * *

Bruce had gone into the burger restaurant with the best of intentions. But somehow Dick had talked him into regular fries, curly fries, chili-cheese fries, and a flight of milkshakes. Bruce realized now that he was at the y-axis of a very steep learning curve. He knew that growing children were always hungry, but he didn’t remember very much of his own experience at that age. Probably as a defense mechanism. Bruce tried to will himself into congeniality, or at least a little more animation. But it was as much as he could handle, having made the long trip, endured the nuns, and retrieved his son.

For his part, Dick chattered and ate, stopping only to breathe or swallow. Mostly he talked about the food: how good this food was, how boring the orphanage food had been, and how he was going to eat French fries again for dinner just you wait and see. No one corrected him, not even Alfred, who had a pot roast with garden vegetables ready to go into the oven. About a half hour from the manor, Dick’s monologue grew less energetic and he fell asleep, just dropped off mid-sentence about rice krispies.

“Is that normal?” Bruce asked with some alarm, as his son began to snore softly.

“Master Richard has had a very trying day,” Alfred said. “Of course he needs a nap.”

“Perfectly normal,” Leslie assured him. “Especially for a kid that’s so...ebullient.”

“Is he going to talk like this all the time?” Bruce caught the boy as he began to slide sideway, easing him down so that he slept on his side across the backseat, head on Bruce’s thigh.

“Well I don’t think the milkshakes slowed him down any,” she pointed out.

“He’d never had one from BBB. What was I supposed to do?” It was not a rhetorical question, coming from Bruce.

“You promise him that you will return again, so he can sample more later,” Alfred said. “You encourage him to document his experience. Allow him to reflect on it and anticipate the next trip with delight.”

In the passenger seat, Leslie rolled her eyes. Dick began to snore louder. 

* * *

Following Alfred’s careful instructions, Selina put the roast into the pre-heated oven as soon as she received the text from Leslie. Selina could not cook, except to chop things and make them into salads or soup (soup was riskier because it involved heat), but she was more than willing to take orders from Alfred. She was more than a little in love with Alfred, frankly. She’d been prepared for him to look down a long aristocratic nose, pry her declasse fingers off his precious Master Bruce, and leave her at the Gotham Air Harbor.

Instead, he had helped her down the charter jet’s stairs and held both her hands inside his, while he thanked her for accompanying Bruce home. Then he’d assisted her into the backseat of the Bentley, and drew a lap blanket over her. He’d told Bruce to “quit dallying, my dear boy, it’s frigid; climb in before you catch your death.” A separate blanket had gone over Bruce and she’d held his chilly hand while Alfred drove them home. Which no one had warned her was a legitimate capital-M pigshitting Manor.

“Bruce,” she’d whispered. “You didn’t tell me you lived in a fucking museum.”

“Well,” he’d looked at her with the ghost of a twinkle in his eye. “I guess I thought it was a point in my favor. I was keeping it in reserve.”

Selina’s phone dinged on the kitchen counter. It was Leslie, ETA: 15 minutes. Selina grabbed her crutches and made her way to the bathroom. The knee was going to need surgery, she was almost sure, but that particular drama had been pushed back by the much more immediate drama of Dick Grayson’s existence. While she washed her hands, she looked herself directly in the eye.

“You can do this, Kyle. Just hit your marks and find your light. You handled that hedge fund bachelor banquet when you were seventeen and you can handle dinner with one fellow orphan. Get your head in the game.”

Their arrival was anticlimactic. Dick was passed out cold in Bruce’s arms. All she could see of him was a head of floppy black hair and green sneakers. Alfred preceded them, holding his index finger in front of his lips.

“What happened?” she whispered to Leslie.

“Long day. And then Bruce bought him three kinds of fries and I think four milkshakes.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Selina sighed in disgust. “I can’t believe it.”

“Well, Bruce will learn quickly.”

“Not him. You and Alfred should have known better than to let Bruce in the wild with a credit card.”

“We should have, should we?” Leslie raised an acerbic eyebrow.

“One day,” Selina said slyly, “you should ask Bruce how he landed a date with me in the first place. It did not involve fiscal restraint.”

“Yeah right. That’s right at the top of my list of things I’m going to ask Bruce Wayne about.” Leslie began opening the cabinets to set the table. “Go on, go peek at them. I know you want to.”

Selina took the opening. The high pile carpet in the hallway muffled the feet of her crutches, making her approach almost silent. The boys were in the family room, which was one of many den-type rooms on the first floor. The family room seemed to have the most comfortable furniture and the fewest breakable objects. It also had a pair of snow boots and house slippers in Leslie’s size. Selina wondered if Bruce had noticed that yet, or if he was feigning ignorance. Neither would surprise her. Inside the room, Bruce was attempting to lay his son down on the sofa and Alfred was giving instructions in his usual dry, patient style.

“He’s not a Ming vase, Master Bruce. You’re not going to break him.”

“I just don’t want to wake him up.”

“I assure you, it would take nothing short of a lightning strike to do so. Steady on, then. Mind his feet.”

Finally, Dick Grayson, entirely sacked out, was prone on the sofa. Bruce knelt at one end of the sofa and began removing the green sneakers like they might be armed mines. Alfred pulled an afghan off the back of the sofa and covered Dick almost completely. Bruce tucked it down over his toes. There were holes in the heels of both socks.

“He needs new clothes,” Bruce said.

“He can borrow your socks for tonight.”

“Did you see how small his suitcase is? He’s going to need new everything.”

“Which we can begin to remedy tomorrow.”

“He was there for almost a year,” Bruce said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “And his socks.”

“I know,” Alfred said. “But the nuns, while strict, kept him fed, clothed, and housed. Everything else can be managed.”

“Alfred--”

“Bruce?” Selina whispered, finally alerting them to her presence. “Would you mind giving me a lift upstairs? I’d like to have a bath before dinner.” It was a rank lie, of course, but Bruce had never passed up a chance to carry her upstairs or see her naked in a tub.

“Now?” he asked, looking back at the boy.

“I’d like to get it done before he wakes up and you start feeding him French fries again.”

“Leslie has betrayed me.” He shook his head and slowly moved towards her.

“Did you even dispose of the evidence of your perfidy? Or is the receipt still in your pocket?”

“To be fair, this is my first day trying to sneak junk food to my child. I don’t have any practice.” He turned back at the door. “Alfred, make sure you leave a light on in the family room. It gets dark early.”

“Of course, Master Bruce.”

At the foot of the stairs, he picked up her bridal-style and carried her towards the second floor. Alfred had told her in confidence that the elevator was in good repair, but it was in everyone’s best interest to keep Bruce busy at some manual task. Selina, who could feel his back muscles bunching under her hand, was hardly going to argue.

“So. Is he serious and broody? Chip off the old block?”

Bruce shook his head and then she realized his shoulders were shaking also. He was laughing.

“Bat?”

“He called me The Sperm Donor,” he said, snorting. “In front of Alfred and Leslie.”

“Oh, no.”

“He told us that his mother referred to his conception as a training accident.”

Selina buried her face in his shoulder and giggle-snorted.

“Yes, I believe Alfred and Leslie found it very amusing, too. Then he informed us that the nuns were always washing his mouth out with soap. ”

“I can’t imagine why.” Selina turned her head to look up at him as they entered his bedroom.

Bruce made a harrumphing noise and carried her into the master en suite. It was larger than her studio in Paris. There was a separate room with a toilet and sink. Then in the larger room, there was a long marble counter with another double sink, an antique vanity with upholstered stool, and an enormous clawfoot bathtub in front of windows that looked out over the kitchen garden and beyond. He lowered her onto the antique stool and began to run her bath. She took a breath and steeled herself.

“Are you sure you want me to meet him?” she asked, turning away while she pulled off her shirt.

“What?” His tone was sharp and she could feel him turning to look at her.

“I know that you never planned to bring me here.” She continued disrobing, so she could avoid meeting his eyes. “And I know that I’m not role model material. I know you offered me the penthouse in the city whenever I liked, so.”

“I don’t want you here because you’re a good role model,” he said very seriously. “I want you here because I love you.”

Selina fumbled the clasp of her bra. “What?” 

Bruce rose and began helping her with her clothes. “You heard me, Cat.”

“Uh.” She felt like he’d suddenly switched from English to Etruscan. 

“Do you want the pink bath bomb or the purple?”

“The purple,” she said. Maybe she’d hallucinated that last bit. She must have, she decided, unstrapping the better brace Leslie had found for her. Selina had asked exactly once about medical care. Leslie had speared her with a look that made Selina’s blood curdle in her veins. She was informed that she was on the Wayne Family Plan now and there was no deductible. She stood up, balancing with her hand on the sink and reached for the waistband of her underwear. They were comfy, patterned cotton boyshorts, not the fancy stuff she usually wore, that she liked to wear for him. Bruce placed his hand over hers, removing it. Then he knelt on the marble tile floor and examined her drawers very seriously.

“These are cute. They have kitties on them.”

“If you make a pussy joke, Bruce, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. And then he pressed a gentle, worshipful kiss to her mons.    
I never joke about sexual organs.”

Selina held very still. They hadn’t had sex since Paris. They slept together and sometimes showered together, but there hadn’t been any sexual contact at all. The frustration was killing her. She knew she expressed herself best with her body. And she wanted to cradle him inside her and cling on and dig her reassurance into his back. 

But she waited. He’d come to her when he was ready. But please, for the love of God, he had to be ready soon.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t think you’re dirty enough need a bath yet.”

“Oh?”

“No. But I can fix that.”

* * *

Bruce’s son might be the sunniest human being on the planet. Surely some of it was a defense mechanism, but Selina was fairly certain that the majority of his good cheer was just...him. Neither she nor Bruce were in any way equipped to handle that much positivity. Leslie might have been more capable, but she had driven herself back into Gotham for the night.

“I like animals that can do tricks. Do your chickens know any good tricks?” Dick asked Alfred.

“They lay eggs every day.”

“We had a elephant--”

“An elephant,” Alfred corrected.

“We had an elephant that did all kinds of tricks. Her name was Zitka. I was her favorite, ‘cause of all the treats I brought here when nobody was watching. Hey, can I have some more pot roast?”

“May I have some more pot roast, please.”

“May I have some more pot roast, please?”

“Of course you may, Master Richard. You are welcome to serve yourself in the kitchen.”

Dick scrambled to do so.

“He’s so happy.” Bruce looked wonderingly at his own plate. “He gave me a thank-you hug when I woke him up for dinner.”

“He is an exuberant young fellow,” Alfred pronounced. “Especially by Wayne standards.”

Selina couldn’t trust her expression, so she covered it by drinking her excellent wine.

“Hey, is there gonna be dessert, too?” Dick asked, returning with another double-portion of roast.

Bruce looked at Alfred. Alfred looked at Bruce. Standoff. Selina cut her carrots and tried to watch and avoid eye contact at the same time.

“I think,” Bruce ventured. “That three milkshakes is enough dessert for one day.”

“I see what you’re saying but to be fair you did drink like a half of one.”

“Well.” Bruce had to be aware that all eyes were on him. “If you’re a good sport when we go shopping tomorrow, I’m sure Alfred could be persuaded to prepare something.”

“That’s so cool. Thanks, Alfred.” Dick smiled brightly and forked more food into his mouth. The kid had to have a hollow leg. It was the only way.

* * *

Dick declined the first three bedrooms he was shown. They were all in the family wing, an arm of the building that spread away from the front rooms and kitchens at a perpendicular to that part of the house. Alfred’s rooms were just off the kitchen, below the stairs that went up to the family bedrooms. There was a very handsome bedroom just above those stairs, but Dick poked his head in and declined. He shook his head at the blue and gold rooms as well.

“Is there something wrong with them?” Bruce asked, shifting Dick’s suitcase to his other hand. He had not anticipated that this would be the emotionally fraught part of the evening. 

“No. Not really.” Dick stared at his feet.

“Is there something in particular you’re looking for?” Selina asked, perceptive as always.

“One without a bathroom,” Dick said immediately.

“Why?” Bruce asked, thinking of the inconvenience. He got a gentle elbow in the side.

“Dick,” Selina began gently. “Were your family Travellers?”

He nodded his head. “Bashalde. How did you know?”

“I’ve done lots of work in the theater, here and in Europe. I remember the bathroom rule from fighting over trailers outside a, um, venue in Ohio.”

Roma? Like Romani? Bruce’s mind slipped a gear as it attempted to cogitate on how much he knew that he didn’t know. Bathroom rule? If there was a bathroom rule, there had to be other rules. He was missing a huge piece of the picture. Culture. History. Language. What dialect should he be learning? Could he find a coach in Gotham, or would he have to go to New York?

“-ruce?”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll explain it to Bruce later. He’s thinking very hard right now about how he might have offended you.”

“Oh, jeez, he hasn’t at all,” Dick assured her.

“Sorry,” Bruce said. “Selina’s right. I was thinking.”

“Don’t worry,” Dick said a little desperately. “It’s not that important.”

“Of course it is,” Bruce said, a little more firmly than he intended. “And you will let one of us know if there’s anything else you need to feel comfortable.”

In the end, Dick chose a large room a few doors down from Bruce. It did not have a bathroom, but it was located close to the guest bath that opened onto the hallway. It was a little oddly arranged, possibly because it had been a private salon or sewing room in the last century. Its windows faced due south and looked towards the front gates, where he’d be the first resident to be able to see anyone arrive.

Selina went on to get ready for bed, but Bruce decided to wait while Dick took a shower, brushed his teeth, and changed into pajamas. While he waited, Bruce moved the furniture around a little, turning the bed so that Dick could easily see the doorway. He made sure there were lamps on both nightstands, and that their bulbs all worked. He turned on the discreetly placed nightlight near the closet. He set the old-fashioned suitcase on the old-fashioned table. Maybe they should look for furniture, too.

“Good night, Bruce!” Dick said cheerily, when he climbed into bed.

“Good night.” But he didn’t leave. “I’m not sure what the protocol is.”

“The what?” His son was looking at him in some confusion.

“The rules. For bedtime.”

“The nuns just turned out all the lights and left.”

“Right.” Bruce cleared his throat. “Good night, Dick. Sleep tight.” I swear I’ll never just turn the lights off and leave, sounded a little like overkill.

He was still thinking about it when he brushed his teeth, washed his face, and put on the moisturizer Selina had made him buy from the pharmacie. He slipped out of his clothes and began to put on the monogrammed pajamas he’d found in the things Selina had packed.

“What on earth are you doing?” Selina asked from the bed.

“I had a lot of nightmares when I was his age.” His tone was matter of fact, but he had a little trouble with the next buttons “If he wakes up or comes looking, I don’t want to be caught with my pants down.”

“That was a nice little pun.”

“Thank you.”

“So where’s mine?” Her eyebrow was raised.

“Where’s your what?”

“My pajamas. If you thought ahead to wear yours, I know you thought about mine.”

“I never stop thinking about what you’re wearing,” he said. “Look under your pillow.”

Selina clapped her hands and pounced, gleefully removing a small package wrapped in tissue paper. Inside was a black silk nightdress with thin straps and something complicated at the hem that the saleslady had insisted was very de rigeur.

“Is this Amoralle?” Selina was holding the nightgown against her body. “It looks like Amoralle.”

“You have a good eye.” He realized he hadn’t seen her happy since Paris. Then again he hadn’t been able to see much since Paris. It was like a kind of myopia, that kept his eyes only on what was immediately troubling him, unable to look beyond. It hadn’t been until he’d climbed into the car this morning that he realized he was sharing both time and space with people other than himself. Bruce had suggested a brief detour at a luxury boutique, and Alfred had smiled with approval. And now Selina beamed at him. Well, she was beaming at the nightie, that was close enough.

“Thank you, Bruce.” She slipped into it and crawled under the covers. 

Bruce paused for a moment before following her, taking a moment to appreciate how she looked in his bed. She was so beautiful, lithe, and graceful, even on crutches. And tough. He didn’t remember much about leaving Paris, but he knew she must have badgered him onto that plane. She had ways to make him.

“I’m cold, Bruce. Come be my space heater.”

She had ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to cite my sources! For the few Roma words I used and St. Sarah:
> 
> https://www.nationalgeographic.com.au/people/american-gypsies-glossary.aspx
> 
> http://romove.radio.cz/en/clanek/18906


	2. February 2009

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: a non-graphic, technical description of an aviation accident.

**February 2009**

Selina had her ACL repaired. It was a small tear, but she wanted it fixed. She wanted that knee back. She wanted...options. The truth was that while Dick was a great kid and she might actually love Bruce (she didn’t really have enough experience to be totally confident) and it was obviously easy living in the Manor, Selina Kyle was nobody’s mom. Yesterday, at dinner, Dick had looked at her and asked for ice cream. Bruce had honestly been surprised when Selina passed the buck. 

This was what happened, when kids got involved. It certainly wasn’t Dick’s fault. And Bruce couldn’t be responsible for absorbing by osmosis a lifetime of patriarchy and privilege. But Selina knew, deep inside her heart, that she was not put on this earth to monitor anyone’s sugar intake. So she needed options. Bruce had made sure she knew the penthouse in town was open to her, as were any number of properties. But the penthouse was the one he had given her the key to.

Being a kept woman was not on her life’s to-do list either, but it was beginning to seem less of a step down from total independence and more of a lateral move. The penthouse would give her a little breathing room. And there were GED classes she’d been looking into also. Gotham City Community College had a campus not too far away. Selina wanted options.

Leslie drove her into town for surgery and took her home when it was over. It was a relatively easy procedure, all things considered, or so they told her. It didn’t feel particularly easy. The elevator to the family wing had been miraculously restored to service, now that Bruce was living a little less in his own head. They were out running errands for Alfred today before Dick’s favorite activity: showing up other kids at gymnastics class. Selina suspected Alfred had quite deliberately arranged for eight hours of uninterrupted peace. Leslie rode upstairs with her and helped her into the truly delightful bed, elevating the sore leg carefully.

“I know they said six to twelve months before you return dancing, but I saw the tape from today, and it’s not going to take you a year.”

“Ugh.” Selina let her head fall back on her pillow. She’d never had general anesthesia before and it was not agreeing with her. The pain in her knee was only still a dull ache, but the rest of her still felt like she’d been hit by a garbage truck.

“I’ll tell Alfred to send up something light for dinner. And Bruce will need to come up and hover a little to make himself feel better.”

“Does he have to?”

“It’s the price of being with a conscientious man. Do you have any idea how many vegetables I have to eat to stay in Alfred’s good books?”

“Yes, your suffering must be immense.”

“Oh, shut up or I won’t give you the drugs.”

“Leslie,” Selina said, holding out her hand for the painkillers. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

Leslie heaved a sigh and sat down on the bed next to her, mindful of the propped up knee. She tapped out a couple and handed them off.

“I was never supposed to stay. I’m not some...house person.”

“House person,” Leslie said dryly.

“You know what I mean.” Selina dry swallowed the pills without effort.

“Yes, I do.” Leslie rubbed her forehead. “Look ,I’ve had one moderately successful romantic relationship my entire life. One. And it works because when we’re not knocking boots, he’s feeding me or ironing my slacks. And he doesn’t ever trespass in my space.”

“I think that’s what I need.”

“Space?”

“Space.” Selina stared at her knee resentfully. “I hope that doesn’t make me sound too ungrateful.”

“Not in my opinion, or experience.”

“Bruce did give me a key to the penthouse.”

“Ugh.” Leslie made a face. “That place is nice, but it’s--I mean, look, if you want to stay in the Wayne bubble, the penthouse the way to go.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“They still have an employee who stands in the elevator to press the buttons for you.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Yeah, well.” Leslie gestured around Bruce’s tasteful, masculine, and expensive bedroom.

“Right.” So this was what the gilded cage looked like. No, that was probably the drugs talking.

“You should sleep while you can. I’ll tell Bruce not to wake you up, but you probably will anyway when you realize that he’s watching you sleep.”

“Ugh.”

* * *

Selina was off crutches in seven days and driving in ten. Bruce, selfishly, wished that she wouldn’t heal so quickly. She’d told him that she was leaving, moving into Gotham. And she didn’t want the penthouse. She wanted her own place and it took her almost no time to find one. When Bruce offered to help her make the down payment, she’d patted him on the hand and asked him not to be so fucking old-fashioned. The day before she was due to move out, Dick approached him in tears.

“I don’t want her to go.” He was despondent.

“Oh. Chum.” Chum? Jesus, he really was old-fashioned. “She’ll be back.”

“But she doesn’t want to live here anymore.”

“Chum.” Why was he still saying it? Probably because he didn’t know what else to do. He was not prepared to deal with his child’s heartbreak. “She was only staying while her leg got better.”

“But why?” A big fat tear rolled down Dick’s cheek. Bruce wanted to fall through the floor and be swallowed up by the earth, as he always did when his son’s feelings were hurt.

“Because,” he said, weakly. Now what. “Do you--want a hug?”

Dick collided with him at ramming speed.

“Oof.” Bruce tried brushing his son’s hair gently. That was comforting, right? Right. “I bet if you’d like, you could set up a special time for you to call Selina. If you asked nicely. And used good phone manners.” Alfred was very big on phone manners.

“Okay.” His son’s voice was watery. Was this what fatherhood was like always? How did parents survive this? 

“Okay.” Feeling like an ass, he continued to brush Dick’s hair away from his face. “It’s okay.”

Dick only cried harder.

Bruce carried on with his apparently ineffectual attempts at consolation until Alfred found them there in the kitchen: the boy weeping and Bruce feeling nearer to tears himself with every passing moment.

“Good heavens,” Alfred said. “Master Richard, when you have a moment, I need some assistance with the compost pile.”

“Okay,” Dick said shakily, and wiped his sodden face into the midsection of Bruce’s shirt. “I like the compost pile.”

“I am aware. Lucky for you it needs turning.”

“Do you think we’ll see more worms? I hope so. I like the red ones.”

“Very good,” Alfred said, opening the door and raising his eyebrows at Bruce. Alfred could signal a fleet with his eyebrows.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Bruce exhaled and put his hands on the counter. He couldn’t count all the different ways that conversation had made him feel like dirt. He suspected that it was at least some referred guilt, for missing the first eight years of his son’s life. And Bruce certainly had no power to guarantee him sunshine and rainbows. No one knew that better than him. But it was difficult to distance himself from the pit in his stomach.

“Is he taking it hard, or are you?” Selina asked, approaching from the stairs.

“Yes.” 

“Bat,” she said fondly, and embraced him. “I’m only moving into town.”

“I know.” He hugged her back, trying not to do actual damage while also assuring himself of her total if temporary immobility. 

“We already have a brunch date on Thursday at that greasy spoon diner you remember.”

“I know.”

“I’m coming back Friday to stay the weekend.”

“I know. It just isn’t helping.”

“Think of all the loud sex we can have at my place when your son isn’t sleeping two unlocked doors down.”

“I will. Think about it.”

“Good. Now, Leslie’s here. She’s going to stay for lunch and then drive me to my new place.”

“You can take a car.”

“That is very sweet, but I have an appointment tomorrow morning with a car dealer who has no idea how good a deal he wants to give me.”

“Sometimes I wish you would just let me...buy things.”

“I know, Bat.” Selina gave him a chaste kiss on his cheek. “I know.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It wasn’t until her own apartment door was shut and locked behind her that Selina realized just what a fucking relief it was to be alone. Really alone, not just alone in the bathroom alone. Her new place was a loft, a huge loft by Paris standards, on the top floor of a well-maintained but modest building in a mostly respectable block of downtown. She was the only occupant of the top floor, with a wall of windows facing East towards the skyscrapers. She could even see the WE building in profile. 

There was no furniture yet, but she still needed to broker a few of her better pieces. For now there was a king size mattress on the floor with linens provided by Alfred. He had also provided a pantry full of dry goods, grocery staples, and several weeks’ worth of meals both fresh and frozen. The price of the conscientious man. The west side of her building backed up to a warehouse, in the process of being converted. There were few windows. But on the North side, just beside her bathtub, was a small window that looked towards the Narrows, the Bowery and the recently renamed Park Row.

Selina went to pour herself a glass of wine and run a bath. Everything else could wait until tomorrow. 

* * *

It was a faulty altimeter.

Tim would only really understand years later, after an exhaustive study of instrumentation and the acquisition of a pilot’s license. The thing about flying a plane was that you had to know when to trust your instruments and when to trust yourself. 

His parent’s flight was on final approach to the Polderbaan runway at Amsterdam Schiphol Airport. They were returning from Turkey where they had been on a two month tour, for fun they said, of various archaeological sites. Mrs. Mac took him to the library so they could check out books with Turkey. All the places his parents went looked like all the other places they ever went. Tim didn’t get it.

The pilot’s altimeter malfunctioned, although the co-pilot’s did not. The pilot’s instrument said they were low, too low, and they needed to put their landing gear down. They pulled back the throttle to idol, to make the slope of the landing shallower. The autothrottle began to slow the speed of the plane, and the pilots tried to compensate, but they made a human error. The plane continued to slow. On that day, Tim thought his parents would be home to New Jersey on the following day. He was cleaning his room and over dinner Mrs. Mac said he was ‘driving her to drink’ talking about all the places his dad would take him and all the things his mom had probably bought him.

Because of the human error in the cockpit, Tim’s parents’ plane continued to slow down. It continued to slow for 100 seconds. Then the stick-shaker turned on. The yoke began to vibrate loudly, to alert the pilots to a potential stall. The plane did not stop moving forward and the engines did not stop working. But the wings exceeded their critical angle of attack and no longer produced enough lift to compensate for the airplane’s weight. Lift was the physical force that pulled plane wings up, and boat sails forward. Mrs. Mac was worried when she put him to bed, that they hadn’t heard from his parents. Who should have landed and called. But Tim knew they forgot all the time.

When the stick-shaker turned on, the pilots knew, as all pilots know, that they needed to point the nose of the aircraft down, to increase speed, to regain that angle of attack. But at this time, the plane was a little less than five hundred feet from the ground. Tim was at home, eating carrots and hummus. His parents had been gone about two hundred days of the last three hundred and sixty five. If you had asked him what his parents’ first names were, he could not have told you.

The thing about planes was that there was an allowable margin for error. There were lots of mistakes a pilot could make that could be correct. But you needed altitude and speed to make those corrections. Tim’s parents’ plane had neither. The stall could not be escaped. The plane hit tail first 95 knots or about 110 miles per hour. The plane broke into three pieces and the engines separated. There were relatively few fatalities, but they were all in the front of the plane, including the crew. Tim’s parents always flew first class. They liked nice things. They liked old places where other rich people had once lived. They liked rare, fancy things that they could keep under glass or in safes. They did not seem to like Tim all that much.

During the investigation into the crash, it was discovered that the same altimeter had failed twice in the last eight landings. Twice, the pilots had successfully disengaged the autothrottle and manually increasing the thrust within the margin of error. But no one fixed the altimeter. Everyone kept trusting the pilots to get it right.

Tim stopped believing in pilots. Or parents. He believed in the proper maintenance of instrumentation. He believed in vigilance.

* * *

“So?” Selina asked, leaning in closer to Bruce for both warmth and privacy while they watched Dick entertain himself in the three foot layer of snow that was still falling. Say what you want about the kid, she thought, he knew how to entertain himself. 

“So what?” Bruce said coyly.

“So what did Kate say about his math scores?”

“They’re coming up...slowly. But they are. And it’s giving her something to do besides chase morally bankrupt European princesses, so it’s a win-win as far as I’m concerned.”

“And his social studies?”

“Victor is very cautiously optimistic that he might be caught up in time for summer school at Roxbury Fielding. Don’t make that face, Selina.”

“Bruce, he’s your son, but he’s also a didicoy circus kid. A school with its own horse stables and dressage team may not be a good fit.”

“It’s! So! Cold!” Dick pronounced and then fell on his back, again, to make snow angels. There were a dozen snow angels already in the snow and at least a pound of snow inside the boy’s jacket. “Bruce! Bruce! It’s snowing on my face!”

“I see that, chum. Good work.” Bruce took another sip of cocoa and glanced sideways at her. “And don’t make that face either.”

“What? I think chum’s a great nickname. Sounds like you’re getting ready to throw him into a cage in an ocean full of Great Whites. Chum the waters, my boy, tonight we dine with Poseidon.”

“It just came to me. In the moment.”

“Yes, it sounds very natural. Are you sure you didn’t take any improv at the Sorbonne?”

“Be nice or I’ll steal your cocoa.”

“Too slow.” She showed him her empty mug. “Alfred put amaretto in mine. Does that mean I’m the favorite now? It does, doesn’t it? I can tell from the look on your face.”

“That’s it.” Swiftly, he removed the empty mug from her hand and set it beside his in the snow. “You’ve brought this on yourself.” With only a little grunt, he lifted her up and put him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Help!” she shrieked. “Alfred! Dick!”

She was expecting Dick to get into the spirit of things, which he did. She was not expecting Alfred to burst out of the back door in the act of chambering a round in a vintage pump-action shotgun. Something about seeing him, wild-eyed and lethally armed in his natty argyle sweater and neatly ironed brown slacks drove the rest of the breath out of her with laughter.

“Alfred! That’s a gun!” Dick admonished.

“Is that the old gamekeeper’s gun?” Bruce asked, turning so that Selina’s rear was facing Alfred, rather than her front. “Isn’t it rusted through?”

“I thought a fox had got into the henhouse!” he said waspily. “And I have taken meticulous care of this weapon myself for the last ten years or more.”

“A fox,” she laughed breathlessly. “What fox would dare besiege the Chickadel?”

Bruce began laughing, too, she could hear it like a rumble between his shoulder blades.

“Sarcasm,” Alfred reminded them, “is the lowest form of wit.”

“But the highest form of intelligence!” Selina yelled back, although it was somewhat muffled. She shrieked again then as Bruce tossed her ass over teakettle into a deep drift, making sure she landed softly, not troubling her knee. He had a remarkable amount of control over his remarkable strength, which was erotic in the extreme.

“I’m coming!” Dick yelled. “I’m coming, Selina! Hang on!”

There followed a snow fight the likes of which Selina had never seen. Mostly because all the snow she’d grown up with was gray and peppered and broken glass. Bruce had obviously grown up with this pristine volume of precipitation. And Dick, as always, was a very quick learner. Twenty minutes later, they were all inside. Ten minutes after that, the adults were in dry clothes drinking more doctored hot chocolate and Dick had been ordered upstairs to take a hot bath.

“He’ll catch his death of cold,” Alfred pronounced, glaring at Bruce. “I’m certain of it.”

“Alfred, it was just a snowball fight.”

“You’ve said that before.” He sniffed, mopping a little melted snow off the floor.

“I have not!” Bruce objected, looking at Selina for confirmation.

Selina poured as much skepticism she could into her expression. Everyone knew who the ruling power was in this house and his last name wasn’t Wayne.

“It was 1992. And two days later you were at death’s door.”

“Death’s door? You mean that time I had bronchitis?”

“It was pneumonia!” Alfred insisted. “You think I don’t remember sitting up at night, listening to you try to breathe through a straw?”

“Alfred. I missed, at most, two days of school with a bad chest cold.”

“Maybe we should call Leslie,” Selina suggested innocently. “I’m sure she still has the files.”

Bruce glared at her.

“An excellent idea!” Alfred turned to march towards the phone, but it began ringing before he got there. He turned back to spear Bruce with a look, as though he had personally orchestrated this delay. Then he picked up the phone. “Wayne Residence.” Then he turned away from the table. His shoulders rolled back and his chin lifted.

Selina looked at Bruce, who was looking at Alfred.

“I understand,” Alfred said crisply. “Yes. Yes. I will inform him. We will expect you both shortly.” Then he hung up and turned, looking somewhat shaken.

“Who was it?” Selina asked.

“It was Rachel Dawes.”

Oh fuck entire my life, she thought, and slipped a hand over her mouth before she could say it out loud.

“There was a problem with Dick’s paperwork? With finalizing the legal adoption?”

“No.” Alfred glanced at Selina.

“I can go,” she said readily.

“The roads haven’t been plowed,” Bruce said.

“Should I step out?” she ignored him and took her cues from Alfred’s face, which was heavily guarded. “I should. I’ll go make sure Dick dries his hair and puts on his flannel pajamas.” She slipped out of the kitchen and up the back stairs before Bruce could put up any real resistance. Selina didn’t know what it was, but she suspected. But it could be anything. The hall bathway was empty, so she knocked lightly on Dick’s door.

“Yeah?” he called.

“It’s Selina. Can I come in?”

“Sure!” 

She slipped inside and shut the door behind her. Dick was in boxers and an undershirt, staring at his closet, which was full of new clothes, apparently lost in thought. His hair was still wet and if Alfred knew he’d have a conniption. Outside, it was still snowing. No way would the roads be plowed before morning, or possible the next day.

“Go ahead and put your PJs on,” she suggested. “The plaid ones.”

“Yeah?”

“Look at me,” she said, gesturing to her own athleisure outfit. “These are just pajamas for adults.”

“Well if you’re wearing pajamas I guess I can wear pajamas..” They were a little big on him, and she cuffed the sleeves and hems for him before she cajoled him into wearing socks and drying his hair.

“Perfect. Want to watch TV or something?” He had a nice TV on a newish maplewood dresser now. She didn’t see a cable box, but there was a DVD player and an unsteady tower of DVD cases. It was...an eclectic collection for a nine year old boy.

“What’s going on downstairs?”

“Bruce had to take a work call.” That was close enough to true. “They sent me up to make sure you weren’t a popsicle. Ooh, you have  _ Philadelphia Story _ . I love that one.”

“I don’t get it,” Dick said, shrugging. “I like  _ Singin’ in the Rain _ , though. Hey, can you dance like that?”

“Not at the moment, but I have been known to dabble in tap. Oooh, what about  _ Sound of Music _ ?”

“I don’t know. There are nuns.”

“They’re all nice nuns. And the main character is kind of a rogue nun.”

“It’s not in an orphanage?”

“No,” Selina frowned and looked at the cover. Nuns, a bunch of kids in matching clothes, of course. “No, the kids have a dad. She actually goes to take care of them in their own house, with him.”

“Okay, let’s try it.” He took it out of her hand and put the DVD in, then climbed onto his bed with the remote.

“Okay.” She really liked that about him. He was a brave, game kid. There was another seat, some kind of fancy settee that Alfred must have brought up from downstairs.

“That chair isn’t all that comfortable,” Dick said. “It’s from one of the rooms downstairs that Bruce said his mom only used to serve tea to women she didn’t like. You can sit up here.”

“Thanks. You want to climb under the covers?”

“Alfred’s really afraid I’m going to freeze to death, isn’t he.” Dick rolled his eyes, but he did climb under his red and yellow Iron Man comforter. 

“Alfred and Bruce are both natural worriers,” she said judiciously as the opening credits rolled.

“Tell me about it. Do you have any idea how many pairs of pants they made me buy? There’s no way I’ll be able to wear them all before I’m too big to wear them.”

“It helps if you think of them like costumes. They’ll tell you what to wear for which performance for now, until you get the hang of it.”

“Okay,” Dick yawned as the film opened on the convent.

“I won’t tell if you shut your eyes for a while.”

Dick smiled, but looked away. Which wasn’t like him.

“Nightmare last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you wake us up?”

“‘Cause...you were in there…” Dick flushed exactly the same color his father did.

“When Bruce and I want to be alone, we lock the door. If the door isn’t open when you need him, just knock.”

“‘Kay.”

“Dick.” Selina was a little hurt by the way he shrugged it off. “Tell me you’ll knock next time. Promise me, or I’ll tell Alfred about the Heath bars that I smuggle into you.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“That’s life.”

“Fine. I promise.”

“Good, now close your eyes and listen to these not-at-all grim nuns.”

Dick was out like a light about thirty seconds later. Selina decided she’d been enough of an adult for the day. She grabbed the afghan off the fancy but uncomfortable chair and tucked it around herself. Maria hadn’t even made it to the Von Trapp residence before she was asleep, too.

Alfred woke them up with a dinner cart during Edelweiss. Dick made to get out of bed, but Alfred forbade it with a single glance.

“You are both clearly overtired,” he said primly. “You will eat dinner and enjoy a little more Rodgers and Hammerstein until bedtime.”

“Where’d the nuns go?” Dick asked, peering drowsily at the screen

“We’ll have to start over, but that’s okay, we missed my favorite part anyway.”

“Am I allowed to pee?” he asked Alfred.

“I will allow it,” Alfred said. When the hallway bathroom door was shut, his eyes met hers.

“Another one?” she whispered.

Alfred nodded, lips pressed tight together.

“Shit. I mean--sorry.”

“I am sure Master Bruce will explain more this evening. But our new charge will arrive tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tomorrow? Alfred.”

“His name is Tim. And he’s been living about a mile away from the Manor for the last five years.”

Selina’s jaw dropped.

“What’s for dinner?” Dick asked from the door.

“Chicken noodle soup.”

“Is Bruce eating with us?”

“He’ll be up shortly, I am sure.”

Alfred, many blessings be upon him, had provided her with a decanter of crisp white wine and a glass. The perfect pairing for chicken noodle when it turned out your boyfriend had another secret love child. She and Dick settled in and started the DVD over.

“Do you know how to sew?” he asked eagerly, visions of curtain lederhosen dancing in his head.

“Yes, but not clothes. I can do emergency repairs on costumes in a pinch, if someone more qualified isn’t available. And of course my shoes.”

“Your shoes?”

“Well, every dancer is very particular about her shoes.”

Dick, as always, was fascinated by the elements of performance. It didn’t matter if she was describing the poshest venues she’d ever played or how she broke in her pointe shoes, by destroying them in order to save them. He wasn’t at all phased by learning that she made a living in burlesque, just nodded and asked her if it was difficult.

“It’s been a long time since I really danced en pointe seriously,” she admitted. “But I used to lose toenails all the time. They just pop right off.”

“That’s disgusting,” he enthused.

“I’ll have to really work on my ankle strength, once I’m cleared for it. I miss real dance class sometimes, though. I used to go whenever I could, but then I went touring in Europe and there wasn’t really time, outside of rehearsal.”

“You should ask Bruce to get you lessons. No, wait, it would be better to get them as a present, wouldn’t it. When’s your birthday?”

“Dick, don’t even think about it.”

“Think about what.”

“You have a terrible poker face.”

“Is it just ballet you want to do more of, or is there something else he should get you, too?”

Selina sighed and concentrated on her soup. There would be no putting him off the scent.

“So what do you think Bruce is going to tell us when he gets up here?”

“I’m honestly not sure.” It didn’t surprise her how attuned Dick was the atmosphere of the household. He’d grown up in a troupe of some stripe or other. He would have always had his finger on the pulse, as all good Corps players did.

“Is it about me? Do you think?” Only a little strain in his voice betrayed him. Selina realized he’d only been picking the noodles out of his soup.

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s not about you. And if it were, Bruce would tell you right away. And let me be very clear on one thing. I know I’m not your step mom. And I’m not Alfred. But I am not an idiot. I have met a lot of rich guys who get bored with people, places, and things. But Bruce Wayne is not one of them. Bruce Wayne is going to keep you and feed you and worry about you freezing to death for the rest of your life and his. Possibly in the afterlife. You’ll be in the old folks home and the ghost of Bruce Wayne will be hovering over you wondering if you’re eating enough vegetables.”

“Promise?” Dick whispered.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” It was as grave an oath as she knew how to make. She hadn’t told him yet, that they had the orphan and orphanage thing in common. That moment hadn’t come. And she’d meant every last word about Bruce. Bruce was wealthy and had spent a couple years (apparently) impregnating some women around the world, but he was not a coward. He was not a fool. He’d had parents and his parents had loved him. He would emulate that behavior, Selina would stake her life on it.


	3. Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim had not understood until he’d stolen a copy of the will. It had taken him some time and he’d needed to use the dictionary for big parts of it. Google and Nolo had helped, too. But now he understood. He understood that this was what came next. 

Tim had not understood until he’d stolen a copy of the will. It had taken him some time and he’d needed to use the dictionary for big parts of it. Google and Nolo had helped, too. But now he understood. He understood that this was what came next. 

“Tim.” Mrs. Mac was holding his hand very tightly. “I’m so sorry.” She hadn’t rung the doorbell yet. But surely everyone inside the house had seen them drive up. 

Tim shrugged.

“I don’t know what she was thinking.”

He shrugged again. Mrs. Mac seemed really hung up on this part. Honestly, Tim was much more anxious about meeting Dick Grayson than his biological father. Bruce Wayne was just a guy. Dick Grayson was a star. Mrs. Mac had just steeled herself and raised her hand to knock when the door flew in and open. She almost fell directly backwards onto the sidewalk, but saved herself by windmilling her arms like a cartoon character.

“Hi!” said Dick Grayson. “You’re my brother!”

“Master Richard,” came a frosty voice from within. “I particularly remember admonishing you to allow me to answer the door.” The voice was attached to a distinguished looking British man, a little older than Tim’s dad was. Had been.

“I know! I couldn’t wait!” He clearly could not, because he was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I beg your pardon,” Alfred said, stepping smoothly to hold the door open. “Sometimes Master Richard’s enthusiasm outpaces his manners. Do come in.”

“Thank you, kindly,” Mrs. Mac said, recovering. She put her hand between Tim’s shoulder blades, a gentle reminder that he needed to actually walk. 

“Allow me to show you into the library. Master Timothy’s things are in the trunk, I believe. Master Richard, do make yourself useful and fetch them upstairs. Carefully. One at a time.”

“Okay! See you soon, Tim!”

Tim followed in Alfred’s calming wake, wondering if his new...brother spoke in anything but exclamations. The house didn’t seem that much bigger than his house, but it did seem older. Not, like, fragile old. But museum old. There were paintings on the walls that gave it that museum feeling. They looked mostly like pictures of the outdoors He paused before the largest one, which depicted a tractor in a field of hay or grass or something.

“That was done my grandmother,” said a man in the doorway. “She was the only real artist our family has ever had. Believe it or not, that’s what the suburbs of Camden used to look like, when she was growing up there.” This had to be Bruce. He seemed enormous, much bigger than a regular guy. Much bigger than Jack Drake.

Tim froze. Mrs. Mac put a hand on his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. He picked up his feet and put them down again until they were in a room that looked nice, but not so nice you couldn’t touch things. All of the walls were shelves, and all the shelves were filled with books.

“Please, come in,” Bruce Wayne said. “Sit down.”

Mrs. Mac shepherded Tim to a sturdy looking brown sofa and sat beside him, not quite touching. In front of them was a spread with teapots, little tiny sandwiches, miniature cakes, and what smelled like hot chocolate. Tim thought he might die if they made him eat something.

“I shall endeavour to supervise Master Richard,” said Alfred from the door. “But don’t hesitate to ring if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Alfred.” Bruce sat down across from them, with his elbows resting on his knees. “Mrs. MacKenzie, very nice to meet you. And Tim. I just want to say how sorry I am for what happened to your parents. My guardianship was as unexpected to me as it was to you. When you’re ready, today or next year or ten years from now, we can talk about what your parents’ motives for declaring me your guardian might be.”

Tim’s face burned and he looked down at the floor. Mrs. Mac cleared her throat.

“Ah, Mr. Wayne. I think you may be laboring under a bit of a misapprehension.”

“Am I?”

“Tim and I were both present at the reading of the will,” she said. “There was video of Mrs. Drake that was left with her lawyer, to be played in this kind of sad case. Her lawyer had not yet seen the tape, and when it was played, she explained very clearly why you were made Tim’s guardian in the event of his parents’ death.” Tim looked up, just barely.

“I see.” Bruce didn’t say anything else, but he did hide his face behind his hands for a moment. Then he sat up a little straighter in his chair, more formal and stilted. “I am so sorry that news was delivered to you in that way. More sorry than I can say.”

It had been awful. There had been other people in that room that Tim didn’t even know, grown ups in nice clothes.. And when his mother said “a night in Baghdad with Bruce Wayne,” and, “a grave error on my part,” everyone had either been looking at Tim or trying not to look at Tim. The attention had been unbearable. Tim scratched the surface of the sofa cushion with his index fingernail. 

“But I am glad,” Bruce said, “that I’m going to get to know you. And I hope you’ll be happy here.”

Tim shrugged.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Selina stole just one little peek through the library door and grimaced. Tim was small, pale, and appeared to be totally shut down. She moved quickly upstairs to intercept Dick, who was bouncing between empty bedrooms. Literally ricocheting off the walls.

“Do you think he wants to look out the front? Or the back? Or maybe the yellow one? Is yellow a girl color?”

“Dick. Dick!”

“Yeah?” He caught himself by grabbing onto a door frame.

“I can tell you’re really excited,” she said calmly. “But you’re at like a ten, and Tim’s at like a two. So I’m going to need you to take it down to a four, tops.”

“A five?” He looked doubtful.

“A four. Come on, where did you put Tim’s things?”

“I left them in the kitchen.”

“Go get them, bring them up to the top of the stairs, and meet me in your room to rehearse. Carefully.”

“Why does everybody always say carefully,” Dick muttered as he went to obey. 

Selina pushed a desk chair and a little bit of dirty laundry out of the way to make a clear space on Dick’s hardwood floors. He ran in a few seconds later, still looking hectic. He pulled his socks up a little and then stood with perfect posture. Not for the first time, Selina noted that his parents must have been so proud.

“Un,” she said, and he immediately assumed a credible first position. “Inhale. Slowly. Wait. Exhale. Deux.” 

Selina had been a somewhat...frantic child, too. Her energy wasn’t turned outward, though, but in. To be used on herself. The rudimentary ballet lessons at the Wayne Home had been her first experience in quieting her own mind. She mirrored Dick’s arm positions, and desperately, desperately wished she was cleared to do anything other than PT with her knee. After about ten minutes of work, Dick looked much less worked up. She snapped her fingers.

“Enfin, la révérence.”

He beamed as he performed the full révérence. He was a born performer and soon he was going to need somewhere to show off besides gymnastics with a bunch of normal kids. She’d have to think on it. Maybe they could hook him up to a treadmill somewhere at Gotham Gas & Electric and let him power the city for a while.

“Oh, hi!” he said, looking at someone behind her in the doorway. But he did not lunge at the newcomer like a coked up Goldendoodle, so that was a win. Selina turned slowly. Tim looked even smaller upstairs, in jeans and a Knights t-shirt and sneakers that could have been new out of the box they were so clean. There was some kind of bracelet on his wrist she couldn’t see.

“Hi,” she said quietly. “I’m Selina.”

Tim pressed his lips between his teeth and gave her a tiny wave. He made eye contact, but only briefly, then he was studying Dick’s room, and then the floor. Selina made a very snap decision.

“Let me show you your room, Tim.” Selina slid past him and into the hall. Behind her tack, she made a  _ stay there _ sign at Dick. She took Tim to the room next to Dick’s, one closer to Bruce’s: private full bath, big poster bed, and a cedar chest from the Old World. “You have a few hours to unpack and settle in, before you have to come downstairs and eat dinner. Plenty of time to take a bath or a nap if you like.”

Tim looked up at her with such strained gratitude that she thought she might actually cry.

“One of us will knock on your door when it’s time to come down.” She cleared her throat, not sure what else she wanted to say. A lot, really. Instead, she gave him a little smile and shut the door behind her.

“Come on, Dick,” she said, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Alfred needs you to wash lettuce or scrub some pots or something.”

“Okay!” he chirped. 

The nice thing about Alfred’s domestic pursuits was that there was always something to be done. She was right behind Dick as he clambered into the kitchen. Alfred was leaning back against the cabinet, drinking sherry out a small cut crystal sherry glass. Not a good sign.

“Your volunteer labor is here.” She tried to force a little cheer into her voice, but she had never been a great actress.

“Excellent. I have potatoes in desperate need of your assistance. The safety peeler is in that drawer there.”

“What are we having?” Dick asked, eyeing the small mountain of potatoes.

“Shepherd’s pie.”

“Oh, Alfred,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

* * *

Selina found Bruce still in the library. He was staring blankly at a tea tray and probably had been for some time.

“Do you want a real drink?” she asked softly.

“If I start now, I may never stop.”

“Fair enough.” Selina crossed over and sat beside him on the sofa. “Bruce, that kid looks like somebody shot his dog and made him watch.”

“He was present at the reading of the will. I assume because there was no one to watch him, since his housekeeper is also his only caregiver. It’s possible that Janet made sure he would be there, so that when her video testament was played, Tim would see her name me as his biological father. ”

“Oh, Jesus.” Selina stood up, crossed the room, and poured herself a very generous splash of brandy.

“It’s worse. She called our, uh, encounter a grave mistake she made.”

“Jesus,” Selina repeated. She added a little more brandy and sat back down. “What a gold-plated cunt. You don’t think--”

“He’s a smart kid. He can count to forty weeks. If he hasn’t already, he’ll be looking for the date of his parents' marriage.”

“And we’ve locked him up with little Miss Sunshine on speed.”

Bruce groaned and hid his face. “I don’t know how this happened.”

“Well, when a young billionaire falls in bed with a woman he met at the hotel bar--”

He cut her off with another groan. She decided to let up. He was having a bad enough day as it was.

“Look, I put Tim in the room next to Dick’s and gave him a social reprieve until dinner.”

“Good idea.”

“But at some point you’re going to need to loop Leslie in on this and everybody’s getting therapy, right?”

“Bruce.”

“I know. I know.”

“Good.” She patted him on the back, between his shoulders. “Alfred’s making shepherd’s pie.”

“Okay.”

“Dick is peeling potatoes for him.”

“Okay.”

“Bruce, that was a very poorly worded suggestion that you go spend a little time with them instead of losing your shit in here.”

“Oh. good idea. Are you coming?”

“No, I am going upstairs and taking a bath and this brandy is coming with me. And if the road isn’t plowed tomorrow, you’re just going to have to carry me home piggyback.”

“Deal.”

She wondered if he knew how profoundly she meant it. It was true that she and Bruce had both been orphans, but their orphanhood experiences had not been remotely similar. Bruce had the option of marshalling his resources and focusing on providing as good a home as possible for his sons. And, to his credit, he seemed to be doing that. He could see the potential where Selina only saw the misery. She wanted to run screaming into the night or, at the very least, do some yoga. But that was not permitted yet. So she filled the bathtub to the brim with borderline scalding water and signed up for a GED class.

  
  
  


**March 2009**

As soon as her Wayne Family Plan Treatment Team cleared her for certain kinds of exercise, Selina realized how closely confined she had been for the last two and a half months. Suddenly she had somewhere to go besides her GED class the grocery store. It was like a fog of frustrated opportunities lifted at once.

“I’m so happy to be here,” she said to the PIlates instructor with what sounded religious fervor, even to her. The instructor, a fit blonde lady who looked like she’d come straight from central casting, expensive leggings and all, beamed back at her.

“I am going to kick your ass so hard,” the blonde said cheerily. “You are going to wish you never even met me.”

“Awesome. I’m Selina.”

“Harley. Nice to meet you.”

* * *

“So when is Match Day?”

Bruce was proud of the fact that he only startled a little. He hadn’t heard Tim come into the library, or walk around behind him, or start reading his emails over his shoulder. The kid moved like a ghost. 

“It’s at the end of the month,” Bruce said.

“And that’s when you know where you’re moving?”

“Moving?”

“You have to go wherever they take you, right?” There was a definite note of challenge in Tim’s voice now.

“No, not exactly.” Bruce scooted his chair away from the computer so he could turn to face the slight, dark-eyed boy in beside him. “I get to say what my first three choices are, and I’ve picked all programs here in Gotham.” He did not add that these pathology programs were, by and large, not terribly well thought of by anyone outside New Jersey. He did not add that he could have had his pick of the Western World, if he had been childless.

“And what if you don’t get into any of those?”

“Then I’ll do what’s called a scramble, where you see if there are any spots open that you would like.”

“And what if there aren’t? Or the only spot is in, like, Iowa.”

“Then I won’t start residency this year.”

Tim looked deeply suspicious. This was not the sort of thing that had been covered in the parenting classes that Bruce had taken when Mother Patricia insisted that he at least begin the process to qualify as an emergency foster placement. But the classes had stressed the importance of careful honesty and uncompromising consistency from prospective parents.

“Tim, I…” Bruce took a deep breath. “My father was a good man. He was hard, sometimes. Strict. But he was also kind. And good.”

Tim raised an eyebrow.

“I would like to be a good father. Or at least a decent one. And I can’t do that from Iowa.”

Tim crossed his arms.

“But I did think that we might need some more help around here, now that you’re back at Roxbury Fielding and Dick is going to more classes. I think he wants to ride horses next.”

“What?” Tim looked aghast.

“I know. Selina thinks it will help him with his focus. Anyway, I have some resumes here. I thought you might want to take a look.”

“Like a nanny?”

“Kind of. I’m looking for someone who can help with school runs, make sure you eat a vegetable once a day, and keep Dick from bodily harm.”

“You’re going to let me pick?”

“I am going to let you advise me.”

“What about Dick?”

“If Dick can sit still long enough to read through the stack, his input is also welcome.” Bruce pushed the small stack of folders towards Tim. “I’d like to know what you think.”

Tim nodded once, very seriously, and took the stack to the sofa. Bruce returned to his work and tried not to wonder what he would do if he didn’t match at the end of the month. Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep at night, he’d walk down to the kitchen and look out over the kitchen guardians and the small grove of fruit trees and the greenhouse, which was still just a frame. It made sense to him, in the wee hours, how an otherwise sane man could take up beekeeping and end up a small scale farmer. 

About a half hour into their work, Alfred arrived with a tray of healthy finger food for both of them. He placed it in front of Tim on the counter, strategically leaving Bruce’s coffee there, so he’d have to get up and sit down with Tim. Alfred could be very subtle, but sometimes he preferred the direct approach. Bruce stepped away from his computer to take a seat.

“So,” he took a sip of coffee. “What do you think?”

“I like this one.” Tim handed him a folder. Bruce had the strange feeling that he was having a personnel meeting with Lucius, rather than a snack with his son.

“Ah,” Bruce opened the folder. “I liked her as well, but her schedule is limited. I was hoping for someone with a little more flexibility. Why did you pick her?”

“Um, it looks like she was a nanny while she got her undergraduate degree. She’s really smart. She must be, because she’s getting her PhD now, right? I saw that. What does repatriation mean? 

“It means returning someone or something to its home country.”

“Huh.” Tim tilted his head. “Well, also she does tahtib, which is something she could teach to Dick.”

“But you wouldn’t want to learn?”

“Maybe.” Tim shrugged. “I don’t really do any sports.”

“Alfred made me play soccer. And he made me call it football.”

Tim smiled and suddenly Bruce didn’t really give a damn if he matched with a program or not. He’d take up woodworking and restore the carriage house by hand. Two could play at the homesteading game. He picked up the folder again. 

Kendra Saunders had just landed an interview. 

* * *

“Holy shit, Selina,” Harley said. “This is a nice place. How’d you afford it?”

“I spent the last ten years picking the pockets of rich men on three continents,” Selina said baldly, pouring them both a glass of wine. “I have a safe deposit box whose contents I can live off of for the next five years.”

“I should have taken up stripping, not psychotherapy.”

“It’s hard to make money stripping,” Selina said. “Everybody gets a piece of your take. The hours are terrible. The men can be absolutely bastards. And there are no benefits to speak of.”

“So you must be good.”

“Harley, I am the goddam best. As soon as I can wear heels again, I’ll take you to one of the studios in town and show you how it’s done.”

“I can’t believe you’re a hetero,” Harley sighed. “It’s a fucking tragedy.”

“I didn’t say I was straight,” Selina said coyly. “I said I was taken.”

“Promises, promises.” Harley was poking her nose in and out of Selina’s kitchen cabinets. “Hey, do you ever teach pole?”

“Teach? No, I never thought about it.”

“You should. It would be a good side hustle, not that it looks like you need one. But teaching pilates during grad school has worked out pretty good for me.” Harley opened the fridge and stared at several glass containers of balanced meals. “Hey, did you cook this?”

“No, my billionaire boyfriend’s butler made it and sent it home with me. The wine, too.”

“Ha-ha-ha.”

“I had to get out of there, though. He’s climbing the walls.”

“The butler?”

“The boyfriend. He found out that he’s matched with a residency program, but he won’t know which one until the end of the week.”

“He’s not taking it out on you, is he?” Harley asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Not in a bad way,” Selina said. “But he’s wound up and my PT is going to have questions if I can’t sit in a waiting room chair at our appointment tomorrow.”

Harley snorted. “Lucky you.”

“Hey. Do you really think people would want to learn pole from me?”

“You’re hot. You’re smart. This is an old building, so I bet you could anchor it in the floor up here without doing any real damage. Private sessions. Make a mint.”

“Huh.” Selina looked at the exposed beams of her small living room. It might actually work.

“I could be your first student.”

“You? Really?” Selina couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. Harley had come from her clinical internship, wearing black slacks and a maroon turtleneck, neither of which were particularly form-fitting. 

“What are you trying to say?” Several shades of Staten Island slid into Harley’s voice.

“Sorry,” Selina said. “I didn’t mean to… It’s just the pilates, the doctoral degree. You’re...classy.”

Harley blinked at her. A long moment passed, and then she burst into hysterical laughter. Selina stepped back, more than a little disturbed. It lasted almost a full minute, before Harley could pull herself under control.

“Oh shit,” she said, wiping tears away with her thumbs. “I can’t believe it. I’m passing for classy.”

“Sorry,” Selina said again, and poured her some more wine.

“Don’t worry about it. Look, I’ll save the full sob story for another day when we’re drinking for real. But let’s just say that my interest in patterns of abuse and intimate partner violence is not totally academic. You get me?”

Selina nodded.

“I got a stalker,” Harley said. “I forgot to tell you. No, that’s a lie. I didn’t want to tell you.”

“That you have a stalker?”

“He’s a creep. He’s a creep from my former life. He likes blunt objects.” Harley took a large swallow of wine and studied the countertops. “If I ever turn up dead, his name is carved in the bottom of my desk and in sharpie on the inside of my toilet tank.”

“You can tell me,” she whispered.

“Nah. I really can’t.”

“Okay. You want to try some hand-churned ice cream made with cherry preserves?”

“Holy shit do I ever. Did you make it?”

“No, Alfred did.”

“The boyfriend?”

“The butler. Come on, Harley, keep up.”

* * *

It was ten o’clock in the morning on March 20th and Bruce was looking for his golf clubs. What he needed to do, what he really needed to do, was stand outdoors and hit something as hard as he could.

“Ah, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, upon finding him on hands and knees in a downstairs hall closet. “Does the housekeeping meet your standards? Or shall I be having words with Magdalena?”

“I’m looking for my clubs, Alfred.”

“Your what?”

“My golf clubs.”

“Sir, you do not own golf clubs.”

“Yes, Alfred, I do. I was on the golf team. I played all the time.”

“You attempted golf. As an elective gym class. Your instructors begged me to have you transferred to dance, but you did so love whacking away.”

“I was very good at golf, Alfred. I practiced all the time.”

“I’m sure you are remembering it rightly. And I, your guardian, who shepherded you through long hours at Roxbury Fielding, am in the wrong. Again.”

“Oh, get off the cross, we need the wood.”

Alfred sniffed.

“I was just hoping to hit something today. I have,” he checked his watch, “two hours to kill.”

“Well for pity’s sake, sir, why didn’t you say so?” Alfred smiled widely. “I have just the thing. Leslie has forbidden me this particular activity, but you are welcome to proceed with our blessings. As long as you wear the safety glasses. Come, come, this way.”

“Leslie has forbidden you, huh?” Bruce asked.

“We reached a mutually satisfactory compromise. Anatomically.” Alfred said coolly, leading him around the back, behind the foundation and frame for the greenhouse to a small shelter with walls on three sides and a slanted roof.

“I’m sorry I asked.” Bruce made a face.

“Do you have any other questions about the physical examinations Dr. Thompkins has performed on me?” His tone became mischievous “Or I on her? I am only a medic, I know, but sometimes--”

“Oh, Jesus. Alfred.”

“Her bedside manner is somewhat brusque, but I find with proper--”

“Alfred!”

“Be careful what kind business you put your nose in, Master Bruce. The deadfall is there, the wood shelter is there. I believe you know what to do.”

One point five hours and a cord of wood later, Bruce felt a little less like he was going to run screaming into the woods. That was still an option, of course. He’d spent seven years of his life trying just to reach this moment. He would turn it down, if he had to. But it would sting. And he couldn’t let the boys see that. They had both arrived under such...exigent circumstances. He was making them the priority. That was the right thing to do. But if he matched at UCLA or Chicago or UT Southwestern. And then he had to say no.

“Bruce! Bruce!” Dick came barreling out of the house. “Alfred said you have to shower if you want to answer the phone on time!”

“Right.” Bruce shook his arms out. “Got it.”

“Hey, why do you have to shower to answer a phone anyway?”

“Well, as you know, Alfred’s rules don’t have to be understood to be obeyed.”

“That sounds like something he’d say.”

“He said it a lot to me when I was your age.”

Bruce hustled through his shower, dried, dressed and was seated at the desk in the library with five minutes to spare. Five of the longer minutes of his life. He felt himself begin to sweat through his clean shirt. He’d put on a collared shirt. To take a phone call. What kind of wannabe doctor put on a collared shirt to make a phone call? Not one that matched with the right residency program, that’s what.

The phone rang.

Bruce jumped about six inches and almost dropped the receiver before recovering. He hid his face with his hand.

“Wayne residence,” he said, automatically.

“Is Bruce Wayne available?” asked a woman. “I’m with the NRMP and I have some news for him.”

“This is he,” Bruce said.

Three minutes later, Bruce swallowed hard and hung up the phone.

“Well?” Tim demanded. At some point, he, Dick, and Alfred had begun hovering in the doorway.

“Gotham General,” Bruce said, and cleared his throat with some trouble. “Pathology.”

“Yes!” Dick screamed. “Yes!”

“I’m texting Selina!” Tim said. “I’m texting her right now!”

“Congratulations, sir.” Alfred offered his hand, eyes suspiciously bright.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Selina says she’ll be here in two hours and the champagne had damn well better be cold. Selina said damn, not me. Except just now when I did.”

“We shall overlook it for the moment,” Alfred said calmly. “Now, let us give your father a moment’s peace so that he can collect himself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So normally you get your match with the rest of your med school class, but Bruce did med school in Europe, and this is comic book logistics.


	4. April 2009

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kendra Saunders was punctual, frank, and extremely adaptable. She had taken in all of the Wayne estates in one panoramic glance and gave a little frown. “Nice house,” was all she had to say. She greeted both boys with the same firm handshake she gave Bruce.

**April 2009**

Kendra Saunders was punctual, frank, and extremely adaptable. She had taken in all of the Wayne estates in one panoramic glance and gave a little frown. “Nice house,” was all she had to say. She greeted both boys with the same firm handshake she gave Bruce.

“Very nice to meet you,” Bruce said.

“So.” She clapped her hands together and turned to the boys. “What are we working on today?”

“Working?” Dick looked alarmed.

“I am not a babysitter. You are too old to need babysitting. I am here to instruct.” Kendra said bluntly. “Would you like to start with hieroglyphics or with the elder futhark.”

“Cuneiform!” Tim raised his hand and actually hopped up and down a little. “I want to do cuneiform?!

“What is happening?” Dick asked Bruce sotto voce.

“Cuneiform,” Bruce said, matter of factly. “Cuneiform is happening.”

“Excellent. I brought my own styluses for today. We’ll work on making our own later, out of reeds.”

“What’s a reed?” Dick asked suspiciously.

“It’s a plant that grows in damp ground, standing water, and is very hardy. It can take over beaches if not carefully managed.”

“I bet Alfred will let us grow some!”

“Oh?” Kendra looked at Bruce who nodded. “This is excellent news. History and ecology have always walked hand in hand and today is no different. I look forward to discussing climate change and the global south with you.”

“Awesome,” Tim whispered.

“Uh,” Dick said. “Would you like tea? Alfred makes killer sandwiches.”

“I accept.”

“I’ll show you!” Tim said, radiating excitement. “It’s this way!”

Bruce would import papyrus from the Euphrates directly if Kendra asked him. He had wracked his brain for weeks trying to find something, anything that would bring Tim out of his shell. Tim appeared to enjoy his trip to the Apple Store. He had been slightly more animated when Bruce had produced beta-testing iPads from his briefcase after a meeting at WE. Tim had immediately set about teaching Dick how computers worked. The last time Bruce checked, Tim had installed a bunch of games designed to trick kids into learning things. Dick loved them. 

But nothing, nothing, had animated Tim the way the prospect of cuneiform had. Maybe it reminded him of his parents, or of his life more generally before he was orphaned. Bruce didn’t know and he didn’t care. What would Kendra need for an elder futhark? What the hell was a futhark? No, that was a problem for tomorrow.

“Bruce!” Tim called from inside the house. “Bruce can we make bricks out of the flour in the pantry?”

“Sure!” he called back, then remembered it was Alfred’s pantry and not his. 

“Come on!” Dick called. “You’re missing it! She’s playing with knives!”

Bruce headed for the front door at a jog.

* * *

Leslie was juggling her keys and a stunning bouquet of freesia. It was part of Alfred’s latest madness: flower arrangement. In March, the moment after the roof of the greenhouse was on, he’d planted bulbs with such devotion that he had forsaken cooking and permitted the household to order pizza. Twice. Then he had combed through the better consignment and antique stores looking for vases that he found aesthetically pleasing. The moment that the first snowdrops surfaced, the onslaught began.

Like the vegetables, the berries, the nascent apple trees, his flowers were a resounding success. Leslie had asked before what kind of fertilizer he used but he only turned up his nose and said it was organic. Whatever it was, it made everything in the Manor gardens grow like gangbusters. Every time she visited the house, there were flowers everywhere and a bouquet to take home. Leslie never took them home, but she did take them to work, where people with finer sensibilities than she could appreciate them.

“I can get the door,” said a small voice from about hip height. It belonged to a boy that looked about Tim’s age with dark hair and strikingly green eyes. He hadn’t had a bath or a meal in a while, she was pretty sure.

“Thanks,” Leslie said. “But I still have to unlock it. Could you hold the flowers for me?”

“Sure.” 

She maneuvered them as carefully as she could into his arms. He held them carefully and firmly while she wrestled with the deadbolts on the front door. Then she took the flowers from him and backed into the lobby. He hesitated, shifting his weight between his feet.

“Come on in,” she said. “Shut the door behind you.”

The boy turned around, grabbed a small cardboard box from the ground behind him, and followed her in. Leslie heard him set the box down again and throw the deadbolts expertly. She set the flowers and her purse on the countertop and turned around. The kid looked even smaller now, his clothes grubbier.

“I’m Leslie,” she offered.

“Are you a nurse?”

“A doctor actually. What can I call you?”

“Uh, Peter.”

“What can I do for you, Peter?”

“I was hoping you could help.” He knelt beside the box and opened it up. 

Leslie’s entire skin went abruptly cold. Please don’t be a baby, she prayed. Please, for the love of Christ, don’t be a baby.

“It’s just a cat,” he said. “But it’s little and there’s something wrong with its face and somebody just left it.”

“Oh dear,” she said, thanking all powers that be. “Let me have a look.” She crouched beside him and sure enough, at the bottom of the cardboard box, was a tiny black kitten. It had dense, short hair and kind of a flat face. Probably a fancy breed, but there was something wrong with its poor little face. It either had too much nose or not enough nose. Leslie didn’t really know enough about cats to be able to tell.

“Is she okay?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Leslie said softly. “You know I’m a people doctor, not a pet doctor, right?”

“I thought you were just a doctor doctor.” Peter’s voice rose and cracked a little. Leslie’s heart just about break. Oh goddammit. The Wayne kids were making her soft in her old age.

“Where did you find her?”

“Behind the market off of Park Row.”

“Okay.” He’d been early morning dumpster diving. Great. “Let me make a call. In the meantime, do you want some peanut butter crackers?”

“I’m okay,” he said immediately.

“It’s the big box from CostCo,” Leslie added. “I can’t eat them fast enough before they go bad.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Alright, watch out for that little kitten for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Leslie put her purse in her locker and pulled out her cell phone. Then she grabbed a couple packs of peanut butter crackers and two juice boxes from the stash she kept for these sorts of occasions. Then she called the only vet she knew who owed her a favor.

“Dr. McCabe’s office!” the receptionist all bug sang.

“Hi, I’m an old friend of Mari’s. Is she in?” Leslie headed back to the waiting room and handed the food to Peter.

“She is!”

“Great, tell her Leslie Thompkins is on the phone. If she says she doesn’t know who I am, remind her that she owes me for the convention in Tampa. She never paid me back that bail money. Yes, I’ll hold.”

Peter’s eyes grew a little larger. 

“Don’t worry,” she said to him. “Nobody pressed charges. But nobody ever booked the large animal vets with the big game hunters at the same hotel again.”

“Leslie,” said a raspy voice in her ear. “You have got to quit telling people about Vegas.”

“I told Little Miss Sunshine about Tampa. You just told her about Vegas.”

“Well, hell. What do you need?”

“I have what’s probably a real silly question, but do cats get cleft palate?”

“Leslie,” Mari said dryly. “If it has a palate, it can be cleft.”

“Right. Listen, a young friend of mine just brought in a kitten and it’s hard to tell, because it’s one of the fancy ones with the flat faces, but I think that’s what’s wrong. Someone abandoned it near Crime--”

“It’s that cheese-dick Pyg, I know it. I know it. One day I’ll find that man and I’ll run him over and then I’ll back up and do it again. Of all the irresponsible breeders--I’ve tried to get him charged. I’m working on a civil case now. If I can’t murder him, I’ll beggar him, so help me--”

“Mari. The kitten.”

“The kitten.” Mari sighed. “Look, keep it warm and I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Thank you.”

“Whatever.” The veterinarian hung up. 

Leslie brought Peter some more crackers and juice and went around getting things ready for the day. She checked her watch. Crystal was late again. Her piece of shit husband was out of jail at the moment, so there was a real chance Leslie was going to have to spend the next six months trying to talk Crystal into leaving him. If he wasn’t incarcerated by Halloween, Leslie would eat her stethoscope. Just as she finished booting up the front desk computer, there was an impatient knock at the door. Mari McCabe was young, black, and loaded for bear.

“Where’s the kitten?” she demanded.

“Good morning, Mari,” Leslie said. “How are you?”

Mari narrowed her eyes. “Morning.”

“This young man is my friend, Peter. He rescued the kitten. Peter, this is Dr. McCabe. She’s the right kind of doctor what we need.”

“Hello, Peter,” Mari said, much more civilly. “Can I see your kitten?”

“She’s not mine. I can’t keep her.” All the same, Peter’s hands tightened on the box.

“Well she’s a little yours,” Leslie said. “You saved her, so I think that means a little piece of her will always be yours.”

Peter sniffed and both women froze, realizing that he was on the verge of tears. Neither Leslie nor Mari was equipped to practice on children, even happy ones.

“Why don’t you let me see her?” Mari asked.

“She’s not mine!” Peter yelled. He shoved the box into Mari’s hands and bolted out the door and into the streets. Just like that, he was gone.

“Well.” Mari watched the door bang shut. “Men do run from me, but not usually that fast.”

Leslie sighed. At least he’d taken the extra crackers with him. Hopefully he’d be back. Meanwhile, Mari had lifted the small, funny-looking kitten out of its box.

“You’re an Exotic, aren’t you, angel?” her voice was suddenly warm. “Yes, you are. Oh, your poor little mouth. That’s okay, we can fix that.”

“We can?”

“I can. If she can be bottle fed and she survives for a few more weeks. You know someone with a lot of free time?”

* * *

The buzzer rang while Selina was still in her huge, fleece-lined terrycloth bathrobe. The French Press was still brewing. No one spoke to her before eight am. Not even Bruce.

“Hello?” she asked, peeved.

“It’s Dr. Thompkins. Can you buzz me in?”

Dr. Thompkins? Selina frowned and hit the buzzer. She needed that coffee to be done already. Before she could roll the dice on a weak pot, there was a knock at the door.

“Leslie?” Selina opened the door of her loft. “What on earth?”

“Oh, good I’ve caught you at home.”

“Where the hell else would I be at...seven fifty AM?”

“Where indeed. Look, I have to get back to open the clinic alone because of Crystal’s piece of shit husband, so here.”

“Wait, what?” Then there was a pet carrier in her arms and then also a canvas bag of something and a xeroxed copy of something about bottle babies?

“Don’t worry, Mari wrote notes about the special nipple extension. Her phone number’s there too, but try not to need her. Alright, then, see you for Friday dinner. Sorry to cat and run.” Leslie had the door shut behind her and was gone before Selina could even figure out what she wanted her first question to be..

“Nipple extensions?” she asked the closed door. “Nipple extensions?”

The box meowed.

“That bitch.” Selina looked down. “It really was a cat and run”

She set everything down on the floor, opened the box, and picked up a precious black kitten with yellow eyes and something definitely fucked up about its face. But it also looked like one of those fancy breeds, so maybe she just didn’t know? Selina dropped the kitten into the deep, plush pocket of her bathrobe. Then she grabbed the Bottle Babies & You pamphlet and went to pour herself a very large cup of coffee.

* * *

**May 2009**

> KABUL (Reuters) - U.S. air strikes earlier this month killed 140 villagers, an Afghan government investigation concluded on Saturday, putting Kabul starkly at odds with the U.S. military’s account...The official death toll, announced by the Afghan Defense Ministry, makes the bombing the deadliest incident for civilians since U.S. forces began fighting the Taliban in 2001, and is likely to worsen anger over the presence of foreign troops.
> 
> A copy of the government’s list of the names, ages and father’s names of each of the 140 dead was obtained by Reuters earlier this week. It shows that 93 of those killed were children — the youngest eight days old — and only 22 were adult males.  U.S. aircraft bombed villages in the Bala Boluk district of Afghanistan’s western Farah province on May 3 after U.S. Marines and Afghan security forces became involved in a firefight with Taliban militants. According to villagers, families were cowering in houses when the U.S. aircraft bombed them. The incident has prompted anger across Afghanistan toward Western troops, and caused Karzai to demand a halt to all air strikes, a plea that Washington has rebuffed.

The news had been almost identical when it had been passed to her by word of mouth. Here, in English, it was stripped of emotion and clean of blood, but no less damning. It was not possible, anymore, to tell who was on whose side. Afghanistan had always had that effect on armies, especially would-be-conquerors. A baby eight days old. Children died in wars all the time; babies died. But not her baby. Just a few days ago, she began to feel him kicking inside her. 

“What do I do?” she whispered to her father in Pashto. It was not their mother tongue, nor was it their second or even third language.

“What do you do?” he asked rhetorically and looked at her with contempt. 

Hadn’t this been his idea? She couldn’t remember anywhere. She did remember that she had been eager to obey. She had been eager to insinuate herself into the life of a grotesquely wealthy Westerner, a man who could open a million doors. A man who might be willing to take on an ambitious woman. She had brought the drugs her father gave her, and then used them. She could hardly have expected the man to disappear from the continent so quickly.

“Get rid of it,” said her father, as though she was the stupidest creature to walk the earth.

“It’s too late,” she said acerbically. Where had this unsentimental order been two months ago, when it might have been some use? Why were men forever in love with the idea of things, and then always disgusted by the reality? 

“Then go away somewhere and whelp. Come back to me when you’re useful.”

Useful to him as what? An agent provocateur? An intelligence officer? Another honey trap? A daughter? She would go back, she knew, if she hated herself for it. But first, she would be useful to herself. Even if it was just months more. She would be a mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II is complete and I'll start posting that tomorrow. Subscribe to the series or the author, if you'd like!
> 
> The Reuters article is real:  
> Shalizi, Hamid, and Peter Graff. “U.S. Strikes Killed 140 Villagers: Afghan Probe.” Reuters, Thomson Reuters, 16 May 2009, www.reuters.com/article/us-afghanistan-civilians/u-s-strikes-killed-140-villagers-afghan-probe-idUSTRE54E22V20090516.


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